


The House at the End of the Road

by mindmyownbznz



Category: iKON (Korea Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Romance, a terrible attempt at being poetic, basically I suck at poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 07:23:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19102414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindmyownbznz/pseuds/mindmyownbznz
Summary: It wasn't the first time he received a poem from Junhoe.What seemed different about this poem was not just the unusual timing Junhoe sent it, but also the transparency of the metaphor it was written in. Junhoe's poems were all about metaphors, personifications that were sometimes too dense to see through. There were times when Hanbin had to ask Junhoe what he meant.The meaning of this one, though, seemed very obvious. And it was something that rang a bell in his own soul.Lonely. Alone.





	The House at the End of the Road

**Author's Note:**

> \- EEEEEYYY I'M BACK, WITH A JUNBIN NONETHELESS  
> \- Junbin needs to rise, okay  
> \- PLEASE DON'T HATE ME FOR THE AWFUL ATTEMPT I DID AT POETRY  
> \- I know I suck at it, I can't even make the words rhyme, bleh  
> \- I hope you enjoy!  
> \- Oh, and um, sorry, we have no smut here, people

Hanbin remembers the first of those poems he received, and when he received it.  
  
It was one rainy night, and Hanbin was holed in the studio not doing anything in particular but too lazy to go through the rain to go home. Everybody else had gone home, Jaewon being the last one, saying he needed to be up early for his drama shooting. The clock on the wall read 3 a.m., and sleepiness had begun creeping up on him, slowly but surely.  
  
Just when he thought about calling it a night and crashing on the sofa, his phone beeped. A message.  
  
He thumbed across the screen of his phone, curious as to who might have messaged him at such an ungodly hour.  
  
_Koo Junhoe - 03.04 a.m_  
  
_1_  
  
_There is a house at the end of the road,_  
_It stands all by itself, empty, unoccupied._  
_Barred gates, broken floorboards, dusty rooms,_  
_And darkness that always looms._  
  
_The house watches sullenly as people walk by,_  
_Life and death and everything in between._  
_Meeting, falling in love, broken heart, saying goodbyes,_  
_Tears and laughter, truth and lies._  
  
_The house misses the bright light, the puff of breath, the intimate touch_  
_'It's been a while,' it thinks, desolate._  
_The house misses many things, but most of all,_  
_It misses the warmth within its walls._  
  
Hanbin lounged on the sofa, read and reread the text at least five times.  
  
It wasn't the first time he received a poem from Junhoe. Ever since the kid picked up the hobby in the literary world, he had been sending Hanbin his writings from time to time. He said he just wanted to know what Hanbin thought, seeing that Hanbin was the usual lyricist in the group.  
  
The themes of Junhoe's poems ranged from daily happenings to the situation of the world. Sometimes Junhoe also sent poems about his personal feelings, but Hanbin never questioned about those too much. He didn't want to broach some boundaries he wasn't supposed to come close to.  
  
What seemed different about this poem was, he thought then, not just the unusual timing Junhoe sent it, but also the transparency of the metaphor it was written in. Junhoe's poems were all about metaphors, personifications that were sometimes too dense to see through. There were times when Hanbin had to ask Junhoe what he meant.  
  
The meaning of this one, though, seemed very obvious. And it was something that rang a bell in his own soul.  
  
Lonely. Alone.  
  
Sometimes they were surrounded by so many people and so much commotion, it only made them feel secluded. And it drove them, or maybe Hanbin himself specifically, to realize that all they had were each other.  
  
Hanbin could almost see the house at the end of the road, standing in the dark. Sad and left out in the cold.  
  
His thumbs hovered in front of the screen, mind wondering about what to respond with. He didn't know if he should mention what he thought of the poem just yet. After a moment of consideration, he began typing.

_Why are you still awake?_

  
It didn't take Junhoe long to reply.

_Couldn't sleep, I just drank half a bottle of whiskey._

  
_All by yourself? Jinani-hyung?_

  
_Probably asleep already, I don't know. I didn't feel like drinking with him._

  
Hanbin stared at the last reply for a few seconds. Since when did Junhoe not feel like drinking with Jinhwan? The drinking buddies were practically inseparable when they had bottles of alcohol between them.  
  
He didn't get the chance to wonder about Junhoe's solo drinking session any further, because Junhoe was already typing a new reply.

_What do you think about the poem?_

  
Hanbin's fingers paused for a moment, and then he typed.

_I like it. The house might need some fixing._

  
And then he added another reply, as an afterthought.

_Do you need company?_

  
Junhoe typed. And then stopped. And then continued typing. Hanbin wondered if he was okay. He also wondered why he suddenly felt like he ought to make that journey home to the dorms, even through the still drizzling rain.

_Nah, I'm okay. I'll be okay._

_Yes, the house needs a lot of fixing._

  
In the dark and quiet studio, Hanbin's eyes were glued to the screen of his phone. He turned to his side and drew his knees up.  
  
His heart was aching, somewhat, when he read Junhoe's 'I'm okay. I'll be okay.' over and over again.

 _Go to sleep._  

_We'll get that house fixed when we're awake._

 

_Okay. You too, Hanbinie._

_Let's pretend I'm too drunk to notice that I just called you Hanbinie._

 

Hanbin huffed a breathy laughter. He couldn't stop his mind from imagining how the nickname would sound like in Junhoe's voice.

_Will do. Good night, Juneya._

He moved to put his phone down beside his head on the sofa, but before he did, he felt it buzzing again. Without unlocking his phone, he looked at Junhoe's reply beaming on his lock screen, and smiled.

  
_Good night. Sweet dreams, Hanbinie._

  
×××

  
Hanbin thinks of the second poem, and can't help but bite his lip at the fluttering of his heart. This time, he didn't receive it via text message. He read it from Junhoe's phone.  
  
It was a humid afternoon, with summer looming very close and the temperature becoming too uncomfortable to be wearing pullovers or anything other than flimsy t-shirts and shorts. Hanbin was at the gym, sweating his ass off, all the while daydreaming of his air-conditioned bedroom and a bowl of kimchi ramyun. Junhoe was there, too, having just finished grappling around with Hwangssabu-nim in their Jiujitsu uniforms.  
  
The changing room was eerily empty when Hanbin got there. Except, it wasn't exactly empty. Sitting on one of the benches was Junhoe, already changed into a clean white t-shirt. His hair was damp and a complete mess. He didn't seem to notice Hanbin approaching, too preoccupied with his phone.  
  
Hanbin shrugged off his wet t-shirt, towelled himself dry and sat next to Junhoe. That seemed to surprise the younger, who flinched for a second before he realized that it was Hanbin.  
  
Hanbin couldn't miss the way Junhoe tapped the home button to exit whatever he had been doing.  
  
"I hope you weren't watching anything suspicious," he bumped his shoulder playfully against Junhoe's, grinning.  
  
Junhoe scoffed. "You're the one who watches hentai anime when--"  
  
Hanbin punched him on the arm. "Shut up! I do not watch hentai anime!"  
  
All the boxing training with Hwangssabu was definitely worth it because Junhoe was yelping and nearly falling over in apparent pain. Hanbin cackled, but then helped Junhoe back to his seat. He patted the spot that he punched gently.  
  
They settled back on the bench, Hanbin leaning against Junhoe's firm arm (the arm that was probably still throbbing thanks to his punch) and Junhoe unlocking his phone. Hanbin watched him as he tapped on the notes app. There were possibly dozens of drafts in the list, but Junhoe clicked on the topmost note. The title simply said, '2'.  
  
"It's, um, it's not done yet, but," Junhoe shrugged, knocking his shoulder against Hanbin's cheek lightly. He brought up his phone so Hanbin could see.  
  
Curious, Hanbin leaned closer, propping his chin on Junhoe's shoulder. The letters on the screen formed sentences, and sentences uncovered meanings.  
  
_2_  
  
_There is a house at the end of the road,_  
_It is broken and bruised and left on its own._  
_The trees in the yard have withered, leaving empty shells and ghosts_  
_Of a past that could not go on._  
_But on a branch of that dead tree, chirping and singing_  
_Is a small sparrow, brown and lovely._  
_The voice of the sparrow drives the silence away_  
_Small but powerful, and it keeps singing curiously._  
  
Like Junhoe said, it was not finished yet. Even so, the words were enough to convey the hopefulness that was peeking through the desolation, the tiny ray of light that was beaming onto the loneliness. Hanbin couldn't stop the smile that spread on his lips.  
  
"We haven't got to fixing that house," he said, still staring at the screen of Junhoe's phone. Now it was showing photos of Bbangdaeng, Junhoe's adorable little pup.  
  
"Where do we even start?"  
  
Junhoe's voice rumbled across skin and the point of contact between his shoulder and Hanbin's chin. For some reason, it made him wish Junhoe hadn't put on a change of clothes. The warmth of Junhoe's skin was so inviting, as if he could drown in it and it would simply feel like falling into his own bed. Familiar. Comfortable.  
  
Less lonely. Less alone.  
  
The house was not as silent as it used to be. The little swallow was chirping, perched on the closest branch.  
  
"I don't know," Hanbin mumbled. He was getting sleepy. "Does the house have a window that is open?"  
  
Junhoe seemed to be thinking for a moment. "Maybe," he answered, in the end, sounding slightly doubtful.  
  
Hanbin nodded. His cheek rubbed against Junhoe's still damp hair and it should have felt icky, yet it didn't. He gave a small squeeze on Junhoe's arm and finally withdrew from the half hug.  
  
The younger was looking at him, and he smiled. "Want to grab something to eat?"  
  
Junhoe smiled as well. "You paying?"  
  
"I'm always paying," Hanbin scoffed.  
  
Junhoe's laughter rolled between them, tongue wetting the lower lip. Hanbin was staring, maybe.  
  
"Get dressed, Hanbinie! You stink," Junhoe quipped, another laughter slipped past his lips when Hanbin punched his arm again, less violently this time.  
  
With a shake of his head, Hanbin stood up, towel and clean t-shirt clutched in his hands. Looking over his shoulder, he shouted, "I still smell better than your feet!"

×××

Hanbin recalls the lapse that took place after the second poem, and how anxious he was of possibly not knowing a third. He was curious, but didn't know how to ask. He was giving up, thinking there might not be a third poem after all.  
  
Until one Wednesday night, when the heat of summer was getting too much to handle and there was just not enough cold soda stored in the refrigerator.  
  
That was what made Hanbin shuffle his way downstairs to, as he usually called it, the messy dorm. The mess could be a bit overwhelming at times, but those people downstairs knew how to keep themselves stocked. With junk food and carbonated drinks, that is.  
  
The living room was empty when he got into the downstair dorm. Someone left an empty ramyun cup on the table in front of the TV. Hanbin headed into the fridge, opening it to find what he came here for. There was actually an entire crate of cola cans stuffed, somehow, in the already fully cluttered fridge. He took out two cans, and whipped his head around when he heard a door opening behind him.  
  
Out came Donghyuk from his bedroom, looking half sleepy, half pissed. "That gigantic dumbass, I swear to God, I'm going to burn his damn guitar to ashes, it's freaking 2 a.m., like who the hell--oh, hi, Hanbin-hyung," he stopped when he noticed Hanbin. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Hanbin lifted the cans in his hands. "We're out of sodas upstairs. What's wrong?"  
  
"It's Junhoe," Donghyuk answered. "He's practicing guitar at this hour again. Ugh. I'm crashing in Bobby-hyung's room."  
  
"Oh," Hanbin nodded. "Okay."  
  
Donghyuk was already making his way to Bobby's room, waving his hand and saying 'good night' over his shoulder. With soda cans still gripped in his hands, Hanbin looked at the main dancer as he barged into Bobby's room without knocking. And then the door closed, leaving Hanbin alone in the dark kitchen.  
  
A few minutes passed by in which Hanbin was staring quietly at the direction of Junhoe's room. He hadn't paid attention before, but after what Donghyuk said, he could somewhat make out a voice in the otherwise silent apartment. It wasn't that noticeable from where he was standing, but from Donghyuk's room, which was only a wall apart from Junhoe's, it must have been pretty loud.  
  
Another minute found him already making his way, step by step, toward Junhoe's room. One feet away from the door, he could more easily listen to the voice and the sound of guitar strumming alongside it. Junhoe was singing a song that Hanbin wasn't familiar of. And it sounded like it was in Japanese.  
  
He hesitated in front of the door, uncertain whether he should knock or not. In the end, he didn't. He hugged both cans to his stomach with one hand, and opened the door with the other. And then, as quietly as he could, he stepped in.  
  
The first thing he noticed was how dim the room was. The main lighting on the ceiling was off, leaving the room to be bathed in a warm yellowish light coming from the decorative lamp on Junhoe's desk. The next thing was the mess, which was not a big surprise. Entering Junhoe's room was like walking into a ship wreckage, used and unused clothes, papers and other questionable items strewn on the floor. The bed was unmade, with pillows and sheets disheveled, thrown haphazardly out of place.  
  
The final thing Hanbin noticed was that the room was empty. Which was weird. And scary, to be honest.  
  
But then he heard Junhoe's voice singing again, and it was coming from the balcony outside. Frowning, he made his way through the mess, trying not to step on too many of the things on the floor, and reached the glass sliding door that separated the bedroom and the balcony. And there Junhoe was, sitting on the floor, almost hidden by the clothes he hung on the makeshift hangers.  
  
Junhoe lifted his head and paused his singing when Hanbin slid the glass door and stepped outside. There was a questioning look on his face, but he said nothing until Hanbin sat down right next to him on the floor.  
  
"This is convenient," he commented, smiling, looking around at the curtain made of Junhoe's clothes. "Heads up, you should hide your guitar really good because Donghyuk just swore up and down to burn it to ashes."  
  
Junhoe looked at him with wide eyes, clutching his guitar tighter, probably wondering if he was serious. He laughed.  
  
"Maybe next time try practicing at a more humane hours. You're torturing your neighbors, you know."  
  
Junhoe grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "This is the only time of the day that I feel like strumming the guitar," he said, running his hand down the curve of his guitar. "I thought if I sat out here I wouldn't be too much of a--a--"  
  
"Noise pollution?" Hanbin supplied helpfully, bumping his shoulder against Junhoe's.  
  
He laughed, followed soon after by Junhoe. At this point, nobody could argue about the title Junhoe had earned throughout the years, not even Junhoe himself. Nobody, not even the backstage staff, ever batted an eye anymore every time he belted out a random tune as loud as it was humanly possible.  
  
"Are you here just to warn me about my guitar's survival, or...?"  
  
Hanbin turned his face toward Junhoe. He set down the cans on the floor in front of them.  
  
"I came to rob your fridge, actually. Nobody has thought of restocking the drinks upstairs. It's a tragedy."  
  
Junhoe grinned, moving to grab one of the cans. Hanbin slapped his hand, but made no further complaints as Junhoe popped open the can and took a swig of the soda. His eyes went toward the younger's lips that made contact with the rim of the can, and then down toward the Adam's apple protruding on his neck.  
  
Junhoe offered him the drink when he was finished, and Hanbin took it. While pressing his lips where Junhoe's just did a moment before, he wondered if he was the only one thinking that this would be an indirect kiss between him and Junhoe.  
  
He closed his eyes and wondered even further why he was thinking about that in the first place, and why the thought didn't disgust him at all. If anything, it gave him a weird rush up his spine and into his head, as if he had hopped on a roller coaster ride and now the cart was on its way to the very top of the climb. After that, he knew, was the drop. The big burst of adrenaline.  
  
He didn't know whether his cart would make it down safely, though. Or would it swerve off course.  
  
Junhoe was humming now, fingers lazily moving along the strings of his guitar. Hanbin listened and still couldn't recognize the song. Considering Junhoe's taste in old, Japanese songs which he was completely unfamiliar with, he probably had never heard this one before.  
  
Driven by whatever weird urge he felt inside of him, Hanbin leaned his head on Junhoe's shoulder. He could feel the miniscule movements of Junhoe's muscles against his cheek. It was making him sleepy, reminding him that it was almost 3 a.m. and normal people would have been asleep at the moment.  
  
"Juneya," he murmured. "The house. How's it doing?"  
  
Junhoe stopped humming. His hands also stopped moving along his guitar.  
  
"Um. You really want to know?"  
  
Hanbin nodded. "The house has a little visitor. What happens next?"  
  
A moment passed in which Hanbin thought that maybe Junhoe wouldn't share anything, or that maybe there wasn't even any continuation to the poem. But then he felt movement under his cheek. He saw Junhoe reaching out for his phone, which had been stood against a small pile of jacket and t-shirts. It had been playing a video clip from YouTube, Hanbin guessed the song Junhoe was practicing to, but now he watched as the owner was scrolling through his notes app.  
  
He pulled up one note that was titled '3 - 6', and then lifted the phone for Hanbin to see.  
  
_3_  
  
_There is a house at the end of the road,_  
_The doors are locked, the keyholes rusted._  
_The house has windows at the top floors,_  
_And one that is open, its glass busted._  
  
_From a branch of a dead tree nearby,_  
_A swallow, curious and curiouser, chirps and flies over._  
_What does the swallow see, as it perches on the window,_  
_Looking inside into the dark, unfathomable clutter?_  
  
_The house wishes it had lights and warmth to offer,_  
_But it has been such a long time since it breathed life._  
_What does the swallow wish, as it perches on the window,_  
_(The house asks, frightened,) does it wish to stay now that it has arrived?_  
  
"I don't know, it seems a little disconnected, but," Junhoe shrugged, Hanbin slipping a little bit down his shoulder. "Out of six attempts, that is the most comprehensible one, I think."  
  
Hanbin thought of Junhoe typing and retyping the words, trying to connect the theme and the rhyme, and doing it six times. It was as if he was haunted by doubt. By uncertainty that hung too close, too low that it was obstructing his creative exploration. By fear?  
  
By something that, Hanbin believed, had always been there between the two of them.  
  
It was a weird, ambiguous little space, this ledge they were standing on. It always stood somewhere in between: too much teasing and too few, too much touching and not enough, too deep and too shallow.  
  
Friends and more.  
  
Junhoe, the walking paradox who always kept his emotions burried behind too much noises and obnoxious jokes, used to be someone Hanbin thought he had to take care of. The child within a body of a man who wouldn't remember to tie his own shoes if nobody reminded him to. The hurricane of a person who left a crap ton of mess wherever he went. To be honest, he could be quite a nuisance, sometimes. Hanbin remembered getting migraines in more than one occasion thanks to Junhoe's antiques.  
  
But then that was how he put a quirky color in Hanbin's life. That was how he drew Hanbin close, like a planet whose gravity kept a satellite spinning around it.  
  
Like an empty house that attracted a wayward bird to peek inside through its window.  
  
Hanbin didn't exactly know what he was doing and why, but he took Junhoe's phone from the owner's hand and set it aside on the floor in front of them. And then he brought his hand toward Junhoe's jaw, and gently coaxed him to turn his face toward him. Nose to nose, almost, Hanbin looked into those quivering eyes, downward to his ridiculously perfect nose, and even further downward to his lips.  
  
Seconds ticked and brought Hanbin close, closer, and with the first touch of lips on lips, time seemed to slow down.  
  
It was an akward kiss, one that began with stiff, unpuckered lips and confused heartbeats. But then someone sighed. Was it him? Junhoe? Hanbin didn't know. But yes, someone sighed, like saying, 'Finally!' And then the kiss grew more insistent.  
  
His lips were dry and Junhoe's were slightly chapped, and both their breaths smelled sour like the cola they drank, but it was okay. It was more than okay, as Hanbin tilted his head and kissed Junhoe further, deeper. It was like, yes, what took us so long? Yes, this was where they were meant to be.  
  
A swallow found a place to land from its long journey, in a house at the end of the road.

×××

Hanbin spent days after that night in complete agony, until he decides that he has truly done something incredibly stupid.  
  
He is confused. Confused, horrified, and undeniably lonely. The worst thing is, he doesn't know what to do about it. He can't talk about it to anyone, can't make any sense out of it. All he can do is to once again hole himself up in the studio and write dozens and dozens of heartbreaking love songs that might or might not ever see the light of day.  
  
It is what he does best, he supposes. Not socializing, not building a relationship. No. Write songs about socializing and building (or breaking) a relationship, that's what he's really good at. And it takes his mind off of a lot of problems, albeit momentarily.  
  
He has just finished getting down some melodies for what might be a rock ballad and, before he can stop himself, thinks how good the chorus will sound with Junhoe singing it. His powerful, rough-edged voice will be perfect for a song like this. Then he thinks of all the songs he wrote with Junhoe's voice in his mind, and his heart aches in his chest.  
  
At this point, he should be sick of feeling sorry for himself, because it seems like that is all he has been doing for the past few days. But the mind is a dangerous place, some place he has no control, and if the mind says he still has to be miserable for a few more days then that's what he has to do.  
  
The swallow is left outside, staring into the window of the house at the end of the road. It cannot tell whether it is welcome or not inside of the house, and the wait is slowly killing it.  
  
He sighs, knowing if he continues like this the song he is writing will turn terribly depressing and he is not sure that's what the fans will want to listen to. He turns off the computer, grabs his phone, and heads toward the sofa. It's already 4.30 a.m. and the sun will rise soon, but he can try and get some sleep.  
  
He is sitting on the sofa, back dipping into the cushion, thinking he will set an alarm for 8 a.m. and maybe get an early breakfast at the cafeteria before going back to the dorm. Before he ever gets the chance to lie down and proceed as planned, someone is at the door. It swings open slowly, almost scarily. Hanbin can feel his heart leap to his throat when he sees the mop of black hair and the slightly too pale face, and the whole ensemble of tattered white t-shirt and even more tattered black track pants.  
  
Junhoe walks in, looking as disheveled as if he's gone through an entire zombie apocalypse on his way to the studio. He is clutching a piece of paper in his hand, and before Hanbin can ask what that is or why Junhoe is here at all, he walks toward the sofa and stands in front of Hanbin.  
  
That's when Hanbin notices how much Junhoe is trembling. "Juneya, are you okay--"  
  
"The house," Junhoe cuts off. His voice is also quaking, but there is a tremendous amount of determination in it that Hanbin promptly shuts his mouth.  
  
Junhoe holds the piece of paper between his hands. His stance reminds Hanbin of a kid who gets told to read something in front of a class, all nervousness and shaking fingers and clattering knees. He sits, frozen, watching as Junhoe does what he has apparently come to do.  
  
_"There is a house at the end of the road,_  
_And the swallow that sits on its window._  
_The house has too many rooms that are dark and cold_  
_Hallways that are dank and infested with ghosts of the past._  
_The house no longer knows how to open its doors,_  
_Too much pain to contain, too many heartaches that last._  
_But for the sparrow and the promise of life anew,_  
_The house has a small, secret room, hidden from view."_  
  
Junhoe stops reading, seemingly nearly out of breath. His face is thoroughly red, and his bottom lip is still quivering.  
  
"That's all I got written down. I haven't--I mean I don't know--" Junhoe stutters. And then he concludes, looking quite deplorably at Hanbin, "I don't know what the sparrow wants."  
  
Hanbin breathes once, twice. And with the third gasp of air he grabs Junhoe's hand and pulls him. Their foreheads knock against each other, Junhoe huffs a soft "Ow", and Hanbin pulls him even closer by the back of his neck.  
  
What does the sparrow want? Hanbin thinks it's a simple answer.  
  
"The sparrow wants to stay," he mumbles, doesn't bother explaining before he crashes his lips against Junhoe's.  
  
Hanbin doesn't know what one does in this kind of situation. His sad, thin portfolio of relationships doesn't tell him much, especially not in the 'I want to be more than friends with my friend' section. But fortunately Junhoe hasn't punched him on the face or at least pushed him away. If anything, he is responding just as fervently and as clumsily, lips moving in not-so-gentle kisses and hands grabbing wherever they reach.  
  
Junhoe is sitting on his lap, practically, with both knees on the left and right sides of Hanbin's thighs. Were it in any other situation, Hanbin would have kicked him to the moon and back. But this isn't any other situation, and all Hanbin wants is to keep him there, tighter if possible.  
  
Everything that he has ever known, all aspects of the relationship between him and Junhoe are now tilting out of its normal axis. It's slightly disorienting, he feels a little like he is going to puke if he doesn't hang on tightly, so he does. His fingers claw into Junhoe's waist and pull him closer although how is that even possible? They are already pressed together chest to chest, Hanbin can feel Junhoe's heart knocking against his even through layers of skin, meat and bones.  
  
It is a chaos in his brain and heart, but in the midst of all that, he feels like he is slowly settling down. It is a new ground, a place he isn't familiar with, not yet at least, but it is somehow fascinating. It is a place that seems abandoned... just like a house that sits alone at the end of the road.  
  
And this is where he chooses to stay.

 

**× THE END ×**


End file.
